


Out of Here

by rubygirl29



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Clothing Kink, First Kiss, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, No Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-11
Updated: 2012-06-11
Packaged: 2017-11-07 11:52:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/430856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rubygirl29/pseuds/rubygirl29
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint never thought Phil Coulson was a punk-rock kind of guy. He just wants to see him in a ripped T-shirt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Out of Here

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jendavis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jendavis/gifts).



> Author's Note: Written for"jendavis" who has a kink for Phil in a punk rock T-shirt. It seems Clint does, too. The title is from the Ramones _Out of Here:_
> 
>  
> 
> _Hanging out and shooting out all of the lights  
>  I toss and toss, it's after dark  
> Is this real or just a dream, some fantasy?  
> And is this real or emptiness?_
> 
>  
> 
> No Spoilers. Set pre "Thor".

Clint isn't superstitious, not really. There's the shell casing he shot through on a dare when he was a marine sniper, which he wears on a chain with his old dog tags as a reminder that there's a bullet with his name on it out there. Friday the 13th has never meant more than the day after the twelfth and before the fourteenth. Black cats and ladders? Kid stuff. Bad luck comes with trouble dogging its heels and the scent of blood and death. That's not superstition; it's been his whole fucking life.

That was before he hooked up with S.H.I.E.L.D and Agent Phil Coulson. Their first op goes so smoothly that it becomes a case-study for future field operations. Other ops follow, and it eventually becomes a "thing" that Agent Coulson and Specialist Barton are the go-to team for ops that require danger, subterfuge and deadly silence. Most of their assignments go smoothly -- a few bumps and bruises along the way, no major disasters, so when disaster strikes, it's a shock that sets them both back on their heels.

It's the thirteenth op that blows up on them, literally. They are in Newark. _Why does it always have to be Newark where the criminals come home to roost?_ Clint wishes that Natasha was with them on this one because he's thinking _Mafiya_ , damn Russian gangsters. He and Coulson stare at the smoking mess that used to be their safe house. Not so much. It's raining, cold, and there is somebody shooting at them, which is never a good thing. 

"I think our cover's been blown," Clint says as he peers at the ruins from the corner of the building where he and Coulson have taken shelter from the sniper. He wipes the rain from his face. At least he's wearing black weather-proof cargo pants and a tac vest to protect his ammunition clips and guns. Coulson is wearing a navy blue suit that is quickly becoming sodden. "I told you it was going to rain." A bullet strikes the brick wall, shaving a splinter off the corner and he jerks back with a curse, "Sonovabitch!"

"I doubt the two are related," Phil gasps as Clint presses him back against the wall and takes two shots into the darkness. There is a yelp and then silence. "Nice," he whispers to Clint, who shrugs it off. 

"Ready to make a run for it?" Clint feels warm blood tracing down his cheek from a shard of brick. He dabs at it with a sleeve and the cut stings. 

Coulson presses a damp handkerchief into his hand. "You're hurt."

"Nah, I've done worse damage shaving." He risks two more shots and waits. No answering fire. Could be a good sign, or it could mean the shooter faked them out and is making an end-run. Clint feels Coulson shivering against him. "Ready?"

"Go."

Clint grabs his arm and pulls him close. "Okay. Count of three." He gestures with his fingers, counting, then they take off, sticking close to the shadows. Nobody is shooting at them, but Clint is uneasy. He feels like they're being watched. 

His brain goes into military gear. Survive, evade, resist, escape. First, survive. He and Coulson are both soaked and the night is getting colder. He has the advantage of his weatherproof clothing. Coulson must be nearly hypothermic. A flash of movement makes him shove Coulson against the wall and put his hand over Coulson's mouth. He presses close. He can feel the rise and fall of Coulson't chest against his, the brush of his moist breath against his fingers. They stay like that, frozen in the darkness until Clint can feel a chill work through Coulson's body. He drops his hand, steps back. "Guess it was the wind," he says. 

Coulson takes his Beretta from the holster. "Or not." He looks pale, his lips are nearly blue, but his eyes are bright. 

"I saw a thrift store down the block. At night they put out bags of clothes they can't sell and let the homeless take what they want. Stay here. Cover me." Coulson raises a brow and Clint grins. "Sir."

He sticks his right hand in his pocket, his Sig in his palm. He hurries down the block, grabs up two bags of clothing and returns to Coulson. "Everything okay?" Obviously, it isn't. Super Agent Coulson isn't immune to hypothermia. Clint touches the side of his neck and the skin is cold. 

"C'mon. I have an idea."

"G-great. B-b'cause I'm out of th-them."

Clint finds a low-rent hotel -- rooms to let by the hour -- and the whores outside are smirking at him as he muscles Phil inside, scrawls a signature on the register and throws down fifty bucks for two hours. The bored clerk doesn't even look at the register, he just passes over the keys and rolls his eyes at Clint when he asks for clean sheets, but he passes them over when Clint glares at him. 

"Room with a shower?"

"For another twenty."

Phil drops a soggy bill on the counter.

The room is dingy, the floor gritty and sticky with things Clint doesn't want to think about. Coulson is shaking with cold. Clint looks in the bathroom. He turns on the water to hot and it sputters and rattles the pipes before it comes out in a decent flow. Most customers here don't pay to use the showers, and the tub is surprisingly clean, if rust-stained. 

"Strip, get under the hot water. I'll go through the clothes."

"B-bossy."

"Yeah, I'm an asshole, but I'm not the one shaking to pieces. You can be boss when you're warm and dry." He closes the door and spreads the sheets out on the mattress. He starts separating the clothes. They got lucky. Two pairs of paint-stained but decent jeans that look like they'll fit, clean but thin cotton boxers. He sorts through the few shirts. Most of them are ragged, stained, awful colors or too small or large. He finally picks out two shirts and grins at his find. _Sweet._ Where is a camera when he needs one?

He takes a pair of the jeans, boxers and a shirt into the bathroom. "Not your usual style, sir. Use the day-glo orange one for a towel."

He just hears a noncommittal grunt from Coulson. The water shuts off. Clint tries not to look too closely at the outline of Phil's body behind the cheap transparent shower curtain. Coulson reaches out and Clint hands over the orange shirt. He leaves, thinking of Coulson shivering against him in the alley; how is body felt. Clint pushes that thought aside and takes off his soaked shirt and tac vest. The second hand T-shirt is cool, a vintage _Black Sabbath_ shirt that aside from a bleach stain on the hem is in good condition. Depending on the outcome of tonight's op, he might keep it.

Coulson emerges from the bathroom. His towel-dried hair is messy. The _Ramone's_ T-shirt hugs his body, showing off the muscles that are usually hidden under the tailored suits he wears. There is a rip below the neck that looks deliberate. The jeans are loose enough to hang on his hips. Clint smirks. "It's a good look on you, Coulson."

"I haven't dressed like this since college."

"Seriously? I though varsity sweaters and chinos would be more your style."

Coulson looks both embarrassed and offended. "How old do you think I am? The Ramones were my heroes."

"Seriously?" Clint is fascinated. Coulson does an air guitar riff. 

"Dude." 

"You're sick." It's the only explanation. "Have you got a fever?"

"I don't think so." He steps closer, touches Clint's cheek. His fingers come away red. "You'll need stitches."

"Nah." He digs through the pockets of his tac vest and hands Phil a tube of Dermabond. "Here, use this." 

"Antiseptic?" Clint passes an antiseptic wipe to Coulson. "Close your eyes. I don't want to blind you." He cleans the cut and applies a small stripe of the adhesive to the wound. His touch is light, gentle. "You'll live."

Clint's breath is slightly ragged. "Thanks." He looks around. "Think we can get cell reception now?"

Phil takes out his phone. He nods, then texts for an extraction. "Fifteen minutes. They locked on to our transponders and are on the way."

Clint feels a vague disappointment. He could look at Phil in that T-shirt and jeans for a lot longer than fifteen minutes. However this room isn't exactly the place he'd choose to spend time with Phil. "Fire escape?"

"I'm ready." 

Clint looks out the window. The rain has stopped. At least they'll be dry while they wait. They take the fire escape to the street. A warm front must have come through. The chill is out of the air and there is a moist, mild wind blowing. In a few minutes, a black SUV running without lights pulls up to the curb. Natasha sticks her head out of the window. "Hello, boys. Need a ride?"

^*^*^*^*^*^*^

They make their report to Maria Hill. Fury apparently has other problems to attend to. She seems amused by their clothing and Clint imagines she has never seen Coulson in anything but a suit or field gear. She goes through the mission logs and shakes her head. "We'll find the weak link. We always do. You should never have been sent out to meet with an unvetted contact." She focuses on Clint. "Go to medical and have that wound checked out."

"It's fine," Clint objects. 

"That isn't a suggestion, Barton."

"Yes, ma'am." He rolls his eyes at Coulson. "Now?"

"Yes. Now." Hill is looking at Coulson and Clint figures there is some high-level shit going on that he's not involved with. He sighs, gets out of the chair with a grimace of fatigue and makes his way to medical via the archery range and locker room to drop off his weapons and take a shower to chase the last chill away. He likes the jeans and T-shirt, so he puts those back on before reporting for an examination.

It's pretty much a waste of time. They give him an antibiotic shot, some antiseptic cream and tell him to come back in two days unless the cut shows signs of infection. So, no looming crisis. He goes back to the range, cleans his weapons and stows them. He's starving, but he doesn't feel like eating alone, and the one person he wants to eat with is Phil. 

"Hey, you want something to eat?" Natasha rounds a corner, nearly giving him a heart attack. 

"Later."

She looks at him with narrowed eyes. "Have you been to medical?"

"Yes. I don't know what I want to eat. I'm thinking about it."

"Right. If you ask me, it's not a matter of what to eat, it's a matter of who to eat it with."

"I'm not asking you," Clint grumbles. 

Natasha shrugs. "Get take-out." She punches him in the arm and starts walking away. 

"Ow!"

"You are such a baby," She tosses over her shoulder. "You know what he wants." 

Clint isn't so sure that he does. He knows what _he_ wants. He pretty much confirmed that in the alley with his body pressed against Coulson's, feeling his heart beating, the rise and fall of his breath. He thinks of the rip in Phil's shirt and wonders what his skin would taste like. He pushes those thoughts aside and goes to the cafeteria. He leaves with two greasy bags. Cheeseburgers, fries, and a package of powdered sugar doughnuts. There's nothing like a long, stressful, cold night to make you want greasy junk food. The nutritionists would be giving him black marks, but he'll make up for it tomorrow. Right now, he needs protein and salt. The doughnuts are for Coulson's sweet tooth.

He knocks at Coulson's office door. "Come in." He sounds rough and weary. Clint opens the door and sticks one of the bags into the door, shaking it temptingly. "Food?" he asks, and waits. He nudges the door wider. "Company?"

A sigh. "Come in." 

"I don't have to come in, but you should eat." Clint says, dreading a refusal, but the door remains open. He enters cautiously. He smiles. Coulson is still wearing the Ramones T-shirt and ripped jeans. "No suit?"

"I'm going home eventually. Contrary to popular belief I don't have a closet filled with spare suits here." He sits at the desk and points to the chair opposite him. "Join me?"

"You're sure?" He waits for the nod. "Thanks." He drops bonelessly into the chair, slouching easily, balancing on the back legs of the chair, a paper bag on his lap. 

"How can you eat like that?" Coulson asks, humor crinkling his eyes, and Clint wants to crawl across the desk and grab him. Instead he takes out his burger and fries. Coulson opens his bag and they eat in companionable silence. Clint's food seems to vanish a lot faster than Coulson's, probably because Coulson stops after each bite to type a few words. It takes a while. He finishes up with a doughnut that leaves a faint dusting of white on his lips and the dark shirt. 

"Better?" Clint asks when Phil is done eating.

"Better." He still looks and sounds ragged. "There's whiskey in the credenza."

"I don't want whiskey."

"What do you want?"

"I want to sleep." He yawns. His head hurts and he's starting to feel blurred around the edges with fatigue. 

"I have a couch." 

Clint tilts his head. "What about you? Planning to sleep any time soon?"

"Reports for Fury." Phil rubs his eyes. "Maybe after."

Clint decides enough is enough. Even super agents need to close their eyes occasionally. He crosses over to Coulson's chair, pulls it back and bumps the keyboard tray into place. He perches on the desk, facing Phil. "I don't think so." 

"Now you're the boss of me?" More humor, but also exhaustion. 

"If I were," Clint's voice drops to a husky whisper. He runs his finger along the frayed rip in the T-shirt Phil is wearing. He finds skin, strokes across it and watches Phil's eyes darken. "I'd order you to turn off the computer and come to bed." 

"Come to bed?" 

Clint shrugs, gives him a wry smile. He's come too far to back off now. "If I were your boss ... but, seriously, you need to turn off the computer before you fall asleep on top of it."

Coulson saves his work and powers the computer off. He pushes his chair back from the desk. "Let's say you are my boss."

"Really?" Clint's voice cracks and Coulson't eyes crinkle with laughter. Clint pulls him closer to stand between his legs. When there is no resistance, he leans in and kisses him. Once the initial surprise dissipates, the kiss is startlingly _right_. Phil's lips are sweet and salty and he has a fistful of Clint's shirt. Clint widens the rip in Coulson's shirt. He strokes his fingers along Phil's collarbone, bends his head and tastes Phil's skin through the rip. It's warm and a bit salty and faintly scented with the cheap motel soap, but beneath the layers is Phil's flavor. 

"Let's get out of here," Phil whispers against Clint's hair.

"You're the boss."

"We may have to rethink that dynamic," Phil says. "Off the job."

"Yes, sir." They release each other. Phil slides his arm around Clint's waist. Clint turns off the lights. The corridor is quiet. Upstairs in logistics and deployment, there are agents and operatives on duty but on the lower levels, the business component of S.H.E.I.L.D. keeps fairly regular hours. Everybody, except Super Agent Coulson, has left for the day. Clint leans into Phil. "So, where are we going?" he whispers."Your place or mine?"

"How big is your bed?"

"Double," Clint answers.

"King," says Phil. 

The thought of all that space and only their bodies to fill it makes Clint giddy. Briefly, he wonders why such a big bed when Phil isn't a big man, but he understands, too. Clint has a double bed, but more often than not, he sleeps on the sofa, nested in blankets, waiting for the nightmares to leave. "Big bed," is all he says, however.

Phil lifts a brow. "Some things require space." 

Nightmares and sex. It works for him. He risks one more quick, hard kiss, while Phil arms the door security without needing to see the keypad. They leave the building and head for the subway. Out in the crowd of New York streets, they are just two guys in jeans and rock band T-shirts. Their hands brush, fingers entwine, and for that small space of time in the world, nothing else matters.

**The End**


End file.
